


Inflorescence

by bereniceofdale_archive (bereniceofdale), sailingonstardust



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Meetings, M/M, Sometimes I steal flowers from your garden on my way to the cemetery!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:39:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4263570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereniceofdale/pseuds/bereniceofdale_archive, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailingonstardust/pseuds/sailingonstardust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil steals flowers from a pretty garden on his way to the graveyard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inflorescence

It was raining the day Thranduil first went to visit his wife. He thought that it was fitting that the sky would appear just as despondent as he felt. He did not cry, for he had no tears left. Instead, Thranduil was content to let the clouds mourn for him.

In hindsight it had been a mistake to walk to the cemetery what with the dark clouds looming overhead, though it wasn’t surprising that he got caught in a storm; Thranduil was never really one to plan ahead. He and Legolas lived only a couple miles from the site where his wife was buried, and he thought that the fresh air would be nicer than being trapped in the confines of the horrible metal death trap people called a car. Thranduil had often felt – and had often been told – that he didn’t belong to this world; as if he were a child of the forest and the starlight and the river that gurgled through the center of the quaint town they lived in. Truth be told, his wife had a similar quality, and that was what had drawn him to her in the beginning. Now that she was gone he felt utterly alone, like a piece of himself had died with her.

As Thranduil trudged through the rain, letting the drops wet his hair and make the strands cling to his cheeks in a frizzy blond mess, his weary gaze caught on a bright smudge of color amidst the bleak greyness. There, not fifteen feet in front of him, stood a small brick house with quaint blue shutters and a sprawling garden. The flowers seemed to dance in the droplets that cascaded upon their upturned petals, blurring into a mix of green, purple, yellow, red, and countless other colors that rendered Thranduil temporarily immobile.

After a moment of awed staring, an idea struck the man. Surely whoever lived there wouldn’t mind if he plucked one flower from the sprawling plot. He knew that his wife’s grave would need a bit of brightening up, and besides, he would stop by tomorrow and let the people know what he had done and why he had done it.

Yes, that was an excellent plan.

So it was with a cautious glance around to be sure that he was alone (which was unneeded in this downpour) that he made his way off the small road he traversed and through the muddy grass until he reached the bright garden. Flowers of all different kinds and colors swayed in the wind, and immediately Thranduil’s gaze was drawn to some bushes of lavender. The sweet smelling plant had been his wife’s favorite, and he thought that the purple would brighten up her grave immensely on this colorless day. He picked five stems and clutched them tight in his fist. Then with one last look around, Thranduil made his way back onto the road and continued to the cemetery.

 

Once a week for the next year Thranduil returned down that road to visit his wife without fail, and once a week he would stop at the quaint little house with the blue shutters and pick a flower or two. And every week he told himself that he would knock on the front door and explain what he had been doing, but of course that never happened.

The plants truly brightened up his wife’s grave and reminded Thranduil of happier times when they would take Legolas to a hill that overlooked a sprawling pasture filled with sheep. Purple, white, and yellow flowers adorned the hill and the pasture below, and the sheep looked like fluffy little clouds. Every time Legolas made flower crowns for the three of them, and it was always yellow for himself, purple for his father, and white for his mother. The memory sent tears stinging at the backs of Thranduil’s eyes as he made the familiar trek to her grave for the umpteenth time, and the man blotted out the image with a shake of his head.

As was his routine, the man traipsed carefully through the grass leading up to the sprawling garden beneath the shadow of the little house and bent to pick a lavender stem or two. But when he had the flowers in his hand and made to turn back to the road, a BANG followed by an angry “Hey!” sounded behind him. Dread fell like a weight in the pit of Thranduil’s stomach, and he winced, not daring to turn around and show his face.

This was not going to end well.

* * *

 

Bard tried to spend equal amounts of time with each of his children, truly. But being a single father with three younger versions of himself to take care of was difficult to say the least. What resulted from this difficulty was typically the overlooking of his youngest child, Tilda. On the days that he managed to set aside time to spend on her and her alone, the girl almost always requested that they tend to the garden he had helped her to plant a couple years ago, just after the death of his wife. That was what Bard and Tilda were on their way to do now, gloves in hand and sunhats sitting atop their heads, when Tilda elicited a squeal of horror and a shout of “Da! There’s someone in our garden!”

Of course Bard didn’t believe his daughter at first; who on Earth would be traipsing through their garden? Yet as he glanced out the window Tilda had peered through, he saw what was no doubt a rather tall man with long blond hair cascading down his back. An odd combination to be sure, but Bard didn’t pay it much mind. No, his gaze was fixed on the lavender sprigs clutched tightly in the man’s fist.

Anger boiled up in the brunet that someone would dare steal his daughter’s flowers that she had worked so hard to grow, and with a “Stay here.” ordered at Tilda, he stormed out of the house and into the warm spring air.

“Hey!” Bard shouted as the door slammed rather loudly behind him, and the blond thief stopped dead in his tracks with a start. The lowlife didn’t so much as turn around, and Bard let out a growl of frustration.

“Face me.” He ordered sternly, leaving no room for argument, and the blond did as he was told. Slowly the thief turned to face Bard, and the brunet had no time to prepare himself before the most gorgeous man he had ever laid eyes on met his gaze.

Bard was left half gaping for a fraction of a second before he got some control back, reminding himself why he was there, and most importantly what the stranger was doing. Which was stealing some of Tilda's lavender. And that was absolutely _not okay_.

_No matter how beautiful he was._

“Those are my daughter's flowers!” Bard said, gesturing with the gloves he still had in hand to the lavender the thief was holding. The man stared at him, apparently too taken aback to answer. What was he thinking? That he wouldn't be caught? Bard rolled his eyes and took a few more steps forward, just as the stranger seemed to get some composure back and his face turned into an odd mixture of coldness and sheepishness.

“I'm sorry,” He started, holding the lavender close to his chest in a protective manner which made Bard raise an eyebrow. “I always make sure not to take too many and keep the ensemble as beautiful as it is. I really meant no harm.”

“Well, that would be the icing on the ca—” Bard stopped right there, his eyes widening slightly as he realized what the blond had just said. “Wait, what do you mean you 'always' do?”

The dark haired man was pretty sure he had seen the word 'shit' crossed the thief's face, who looked down to the flower then back up to meet Bard's hazel eyes once again. He winced as only answer, confirming Bard's doubts. It wasn't the first time, and if the stranger's attitude was anything to go by, it wasn't a 'twice or thrice' thing.

“Gods, I can't believe this.” He ran a hand across his face, pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he sighed and locked his most serious gaze to the blond's. “Okay, I'll let it go, but just this tim—”

The thief slowly nodded apologetically, then made to turn and leave before Bard was even done talking, still holding the lavender. Seriously? Before he could take a step away, the brunet laid a hand upon the stranger's shoulder with a gentle—Bard wasn't the harsh kind of person, as long as the situation wasn't really, really bad—yet meaningful grip.

“Hey, hey, wait there! I wasn't finished.”

The stranger stopped, his gaze flickering between his shoulder and Bard's serious-dad-face. He raised an eyebrow at the brunet as he shoved the man's hand away. Bard didn't pay too much attention to such a reaction, too concentrated on his task.

“I'll come with you.” To that the blond's eyes widened in surprise—or was it shock? “I need to make sure the girl is pretty enough to warrant flower theft.”

After he had put his gloves on the little wall, told Tilda who was hiding behind the door that he would be back later to help her and before the stranger could protest, Bard put an arm around the thief's shoulders and guided him out of the little garden, a small, amused smile playing on his lips.

Bard was sure of one thing; after that little lesson, he would never catch the blond stealing his daughter's flowers again.

***

 

Thranduil had no idea what to do. At least, that's what he repeated to himself for the first five minutes of walking next to the guy he had been 'stealing' from, wondering how on Earth he was going to tell him they were on their way to the cemetery.

Until he realized that was going to be extremely awkward for the poor brunet.

And somehow, Thranduil liked the idea. He didn't believe the situation was worth some kind of lesson, which was obviously what the other man was aiming for. After all, he had been doing this for months and never had they realized he had been stealing. There had been no harm done. He didn't deserve this. Just as much as the brunet didn't deserve such embarrassment, though.

And so, Thranduil decided he would say nothing. Saying or showing, the result would be the same anyways.

They had not exchanged a word when the blond entered the graveyard, which was not far away from the house, instead of staying on the pavement. He didn't turn to look at the man's face; the stop he made before keeping on walking behind him was enough for Thranduil to guess the brunet's current state of mind.

Thranduil suddenly found himself regretting his action when he heard the man releasing a shaky breath. Maybe he should have said something instead of just letting him realize. Maybe that would have been the better thing to do.

“She really was pretty.” Thranduil said as he came to a halt in front of his late wife's grave, laying a sorrowful gaze upon it. Yet for once, there was something else than sadness; with that man here beside him, it was no time for grieving thoughts. No, today the sadness had turned into melancholy.

He looked up to meet the man's face before he stood up, and found it livid.

“I—I'm sorry.” The brunet started, and hurriedly shook his head when Thranduil tried to protest. “I would never—actually my wife is buried a little further down this path and—” He sighed, ran his hand down his face. “Had I known I would never have—”

“It's okay.” Thranduil cut him off, trying on a small, reserved grin as an unexpected warmth grew in his chest. “As you said, you didn't know. And I'm the one who's been stealing after all.”

To that the man smiled, almost shyly though he definitely wasn't a timid person, relief painted all over his face. Much to Thranduil's surprise, he took the flowers away from the blond's hand and crouched to carefully put them in the vase after he had emptied it from the last ones, now dry and shrivelled.

The warmth was now almost overwhelming, soothing Thranduil's mind in an unfamiliar way. Understanding. It was understanding that he felt, the kind he had never known before, and now knew he could share.

“I'm Bard.” The brunet said as he stood up.

“Pleasure to meet you.” The blond said, taking the hand offered to him. “I'm Thranduil.”

Finally, maybe Death didn't only do people part.

**Author's Note:**

> We hope you enjoyed this little collab! :) Feedback is much appreciated!
> 
> Prompt was the famous “Sometimes I steal flowers from your garden on my way to the cemetery, but today you’ve caught me and have demanded to come with me to make sure the “girl is pretty enough to warrant flower theft” and I’m trying to figure out how to break it to you that we’re on our way to a graveyard” AU.


End file.
